


Exposure Therapy

by Haicrescendo



Series: Quarantine And Chill 2020 [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bedsharing, Blowjobs, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Finally exploring Zuko’s alluded-to issues with his hair, Healthy Communication, M/M, Past jetko, The L Word - Freeform, When your boyfriend has beautiful hair and hangups about it, Zuko’s trust issues, and also you can’t leave the house, in a bathtub, jet the garbage man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/pseuds/Haicrescendo
Summary: [“I feel so stupid.”“Don’t. You’re gonna be feeling great in like, two minutes.”Sokka pours about half of the purple bottle of lavender bubble bath underneath the faucet into the steaming tub, swishes his hands in to rough up more suds. A fancy bath melt nabbed on the last grocery trip that smells like jasmine has already melted on top of the hot water. The entire bathroom is full of steam, and Sokka’s already put a towel down to protect his knees.Grinning, he pats the edge of the tub, also covered with a thick, folded towel.“In you go,” he says.]Or,Zuko finally owns up to his hangups about his hair, and Sokka has a proposition.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Quarantine And Chill 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722742
Comments: 194
Kudos: 3708





	Exposure Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter of Q+C hits a bit of a different beat than the first two, but I hope y’all still enjoy it!
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you like it, and if you’d rather scream at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.

* * *

  
Sokka might never have known that it was a genuine problem if he hadn’t accidentally rolled onto Zuko’s hair.

* * *

Getting laid on a regular basis is _awesome_ and something that Sokka _never_ wants to take for granted. Zuko’s a blast in bed—sweet and sexy and down to try pretty much anything, and the fact that Sokka is one hundred percent, head over heels in stupid love with him only makes everything better. Sokka lays a kiss on him and rolls to cuddle against Zuko’s flushed, naked side, and at the same time, Zuko shifts to reach for his water bottle on the nightstand—

Dark hair catches underneath Sokka’s body and pulls hard; the whine that comes out of Zuko is _not_ a sexy one.

Sokka scrambles to get out of the way, but Zuko reaches down first, grabs with both hands where the ends of his hair are trapped, and yanks to release himself.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorr—oh my god. Are you _okay_?”

Zuko is not okay. He’s scrubbing his fingertips along his hairline and the minute he stops moving, Sokka can pick out a very subtle shaking in them.

Sokka’s never really questioned Zuko’s _thing_ about his hair. It’s his own business to talk about as he likes; everyone’s got their own little quirks, and he’d been working off of the assumption that Zuko just doesn’t really like for people to mess with it. It’s not hard, not at all, for Sokka to not pull on it.

Except that he has, now, entirely by accident, and the reaction is concerning. That reaction is not merely an _ow, I don’t like that_ reaction so much as anticipated pain and _panic,_ like when Sokka kept slamming his locker door in high school and scaring the hell out of him, before he knew what his home life had been like.

It’s not that Zuko doesn’t like to have his hair _touched_ , either. Sometimes they’ll cuddle on the couch and Sokka will just absently start scritching at his head because pretty much _everyone_ likes having their head scratched and Zuko’s no exception...but right before it happens, Zuko always goes very, very still. Sokka didn’t really think about it, then.

He thinks about it now.

“I-I’m fine,” Zuko says hurriedly, smooths his hands down his hair like he’s trying to put himself to rights. His already pale face is paler than it should be. “It’s fine.”

“I don’t think it’s fine—“

“It’s _fine_ ,” Zuko snaps. Sokka recoils at the sharpness in his voice. “I know it was an accident. You didn’t mean it.”

“But that doesn’t mean— _Zuko,_ I really don’t think that you’re fine right now.” Sokka’s not even looking for an explanation, not really, but the look on Zuko’s face is awful, some horrible combination of frustration and shame. At who or at what, Sokka’s got no idea. He just wants to talk about it, reassure him, whatever he’s gotta do, and he reaches out to try and grab for Zuko’s hand.

Zuko pulls away, slides out of Sokka’s bed, and makes a beeline out the door.

He doesn’t even grab his clothes on the way out.

Sokka hears his bedroom door slam shut.

There’s a cold lump in his stomach. The rejection stings—a lot. Sokka dresses slowly, methodically. The last thing he wants to do is to try and go talk to Zuko. Honestly, all Sokka really wants to do is crawl back into bed and lick his wounds for a little while until his feelings don’t feel quite so hurt.

Maybe he’d do that if he was a little more mad and a little less worried, but Zuko’s panic had been genuine and very real. Sokka wants to be mad because it’s easier to stomach than the creeping crawl of worry, but the anger won’t come.

In the end, Sokka doesn’t crawl back into bed, but trudges out of his bedroom like he’s walking to his own execution, and stops in front of Zuko’s door.

He knocks once, twice, three times in quick succession.

“ _What_?” Zuko’s voice is thick, and catches in his throat with a feeling that Sokka doesn’t understand. 

“Listen, I just—I don’t want you to be mad at me. I’m worried.”

For a while, there’s only silence.

“I’m not mad.” Zuko’s voice is muffled but closer, like he’s just behind the door instead of shouting from his bed. “It’s not your fault. I’m not mad at you.”

“Can you talk to me about it?”

There’s no answer. Sokka waits for way longer than he’ll admit if anyone asks. Eventually he gives up and walks away.

* * *

Sokka’s been through a lot of uncomfortable shit in his life.

Mom dying and Dad marrying Bato tops the list, probably, and pining over his best friend for a decade makes an honorable mention, but nothing he’s been through could have prepared him properly for what this feels like. He’s anxious and on edge and his stomach churns; Sokka hates how his brain is tuned in to any noises in the apartment.

He doesn’t know quite what he expects.

It’s not like they had a fight; Sokka’s not _mad_ , and Zuko said that he wasn’t mad either. Nobody yelled at each other, or called anyone names. But at the same time, Zuko hasn’t come out of his room, and Sokka hasn’t pushed any harder. 

Sokka spends the afternoon alone, in a silence that wouldn’t normally feel so _wrong._

Sokka eats dinner, alone, and in the end he goes to bed alone, for the first time since he spilled his guts about his big squishy feelings and miraculously had them returned. This is _bullshit_. The bed feels annoyingly big (it’s not that big) and his hands reach out for someone that’s not there, and he hates it.

Sokka doesn’t expect the knock on his bedroom door at all.

“Come in,” he mumbles into his pillow before he drags his face out of it. Zuko cracks the door and peers in.

“Can...can I—?”

Before he can even get the words out, Sokka’s peeling back the blankets and patting the space next to him in bed.

“Yes,” he says, breathless and nearly giddy with an embarrassing amount of relief. “Please. Come here.”

Zuko’s approach is still tentative, and Sokka can practically smell the stress on him, but he doesn’t hesitate to slide into bed next to Sokka and press himself close. It’s a relief to be able to hold him and not feel so shut out, and Sokka pushes away his hurt feelings enough to wrap his arms around Zuko’s shoulders and pull him into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko mumbles somewhere around Sokka’s collarbone.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” If it wasn’t already so quiet, Sokka probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him. “I shouldn’t have—it wasn’t nice, to act like that.”

“I don’t care how you acted,” Sokka blurts out without thinking, but doesn’t regret it. “I was worried about you.” _And you shut me out_.

Zuko sniffs tellingly, and his grip around Sokka’s waist tightens. 

Sokka presses a kiss to the top of his head and expects that to be the end of it.

It’s not the end of it.

“You remember, uh, Jet? Right?”

Sokka one hundred percent remembers Jet. He also one hundred remembers cornering him in college after his trigonometry class and promising that if he takes a single step towards Zuko after what he heard him say to him when they broke up that no one would ever find his body when Sokka was done with him. He never really liked the guy, but he won’t ever forgive him for making someone like Zuko _cry_.

“Yeah, I remember.”

Zuko’s quiet for a while; Sokka waits for him.

“He used to, uh. Pull on my hair a lot. In bed but also just, um. Just because. I told him a few times to quit it but. Um. He just thought that it was funny. To see how many times he could surprise me when I wasn't expecting it. That sort of stuff. I don't think he ever—I don’t think he ever saw it as, you know. A big deal.”

Sokka doesn’t even breathe because he’s full of white-hot rage. 

“So, yeah. I don’t...it’s not that I think you’re going to do the same thing. I know that you’re not. But sometimes my body doesn’t know that. It’s so _stupid_. I was a dickhead, and I hurt your feelings because I’m _stupid_.”

“You’re not stupid.” Sokka can’t let that stand. “Who would have thought that after all this time, I’d find more things to hate about that guy?” Zuko opens his mouth to say something and Sokka keeps going before he can say a word. “He _hurt_ you. You know that’s not okay, right?”

“Of course I do. Of _course_ I do. Why do you think we broke up? ...Don’t answer that, I don’t actually want to know.” Zuko sighs into Sokka’s throat. “We were bad for a lot of reasons, and he needed shit I couldn’t give him, but I don’t want those reasons to keep haunting _us_. I don’t even—I _like_ when you touch my hair. I just—it sometimes takes a second to remember that it’s you.”

“Is it something that you want to try and do something about?” Sokka ventures. “Like, it’s fine if you don’t. I can just try and leave it alone if that’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t _want_ you to leave it alone,” Zuko grumbles. He’s tired, and his body is already starting to sag, warm and sleepy and trusting in the way that Sokka loves. “I like it. I just...I want it to feel better. I’m pissed that that’s something he took from me.”

“You know you’re not, like, only part of a person because he messed you up, right?”

Zuko is suspiciously quiet.

Sokka stares at him, alarmed.

“ _You know that, right?_ ”

“Of course I know that.” 

That pause was too long to be even remotely comforting. Nevertheless, it feels good to be able to hold him and to be held in return, and some of the tension that Sokka didn’t realize he was still holding onto dissipates.

Sokka’s got an idea.

It’s not a great idea. It might, in fact, actually be a terrible idea.

It’s late, though, and Zuko’s sighing tiredly into his side, and Sokka doesn’t want to rock the boat when things finally feel better between them. He’s happy enough to be here and to have Zuko in his bed with him. So, in the end, Sokka rolls over to take his turn to be little spoon, holds Zuko’s hands on his waist and around his heart, and sleep comes easy.

* * *

“I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t. You’re gonna be feeling great in, like, two minutes.”

Sokka pours about half of the purple bottle of lavender bubble bath underneath the faucet into the steaming tub, swishes his hands in to rough up more suds. A fancy bath melt nabbed on the last grocery trip that smells like jasmine has already melted on top of the hot water. The entire bathroom is full of steam, and Sokka’s already put a towel down to protect his knees.

Grinning, he pats the edge of the tub, also covered with a thick, folded towel.

“In you go,” he says.

Zuko looks skeptical as all hell, but nevertheless strips off and approaches the tub. Sokka gives his ass a friendly, affectionate smack on his way in.

“If I fall and die because of your bullshit, I hope you’re okay with being haunted,” Zuko warns and firmly pretends that he didn’t just make a squeaking noise. Despite his grumbling, he sinks down into the hot water, tips his head backwards over the cushioned edge, directly into Sokka’s waiting palms.

“Listen, if you hate it, I’ll leave it alone, but I think you’ll like it.”

For a few seconds that feel like they last an eternity, Zuko just watches him. It’s just a bath—a gloriously hot, luxurious bath, but just a bath. He knows what he agreed to, though, and his nerves are written all over his face.

In the end, Zuko nods, just a little bit.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Sokka reaches out and sweeps Zuko’s dark bangs out of his face. He doesn’t touch the ponytail yet, but spends a solid minute running his fingers through his bangs instead, tucking them behind his ears, untucking, tucking them back again. This is something easy, because Zuko already allows this, knows how it feels and knows how his hands look on their approach, knows that it’s not something he has to stress about.

It really is something that Zuko likes, when he’s calm enough to enjoy it. Eventually, gold eyes slip shut and Zuko lets his body go slack against the tub, sinking down until lavender-scented bubbles are up to his chest.

“Feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Zuko murmurs without opening his eyes. “Feels really good.”

Sokka tips forward to kiss him on the forehead.

“Good. You’re doing great.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yup,” Sokka says, “Keep not doing anything. That’s all you gotta do.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Smartass,” Sokka chides with a smile, sweeping his thumbs down Zuko’s jawline. “I’ll Spider-Man kiss you. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

That just sounds like a challenge and a dare, and Sokka leans over and takes him up on it, kissing Zuko soundly upside-down, grinning widely when he feels Zuko smile into it.

“Nerd,” Zuko tells him, but his voice is warm and soft with open affection. Sokka feels his heart squeeze.

“Says the guy who knew exactly what I was talking about the second I said it.”

“It’s iconic cinema.”

“Or, in other words, _nerd._ ”

Zuko sticks his tongue out and dips down deeper into the tub until the only thing holding his head above water is the lip of the tub and Sokka’s hands, back now to stroking his bangs. Zuko dips his hands into the veritable mountain of soap bubbles floating on the water, like floral-scented icebergs, and brings a handful to his face to take a deep inhale.

“You into lavender, baby? Apparently it’s calming.”

“Are you implying that I need calming?”

“I’m not implying shit,” Sokka replies conversationally, “I’m saying straight out that you need calming. Do you like it or not?”

“...It’s pretty nice, yeah.” Zuko takes another very deep sniff. “Smells good.”

“Good.”

Sokka tucks Zuko’s bangs behind his ears with a final stroke and moves up to where the rest of his hair is tied up with an elastic. Zuko covertly—but not covertly enough, stops breathing.

“Remember, if you hate it? It stops.”

“...Yeah. Go ahead.”

Sokka deftly nudges a finger into one of the loops of the hair tie, loosens it, and slides it smoothly out of Zuko’s hair. Zuko’s hair is all inky dark, thick and heavy and soft in Sokka’s hands. He lets it fall, gently, to drape over the edge of the tub, and then goes about gathering it back as if to put it back up. Sokka repeats the motions until the tension in Zuko’s jaw relaxes and his shoulders uncoil.

“How are we doing, honey?” He leans over with the intent to press a kiss to Zuko’s cheek—the man turns his head at the last second to catch him on the lips instead.

“Good.”

“Still feeling good?”

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes and leans into the contact. Sokka drops his hair long enough to drape his arms around Zuko’s warm, wet shoulders, pressing patterns into his skin with his fingers. Zuko’s breath hitches.

Sokka’s taken that man to pieces and held him as he’s fallen apart, been taken apart in return, and somehow this feels just as intimate, just as sexy, just as vulnerable. Sokka hasn’t removed a single scrap of clothing but he’s the one who feels exposed. The scent of flowers is strong and heady, and steam from the bath water fills the room with hazy fog, and Zuko, hair loose and naked in a bathtub, is the most beautiful thing that Sokka’s ever seen.

“You’ve got beautiful hair, you know,” Sokka informs him, carding his fingers through it from roots to ends. “It took forever to get this long.”

“Not _that_ long. I didn’t start growing it out til college.”

“That’s eight years, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude when I’m naked.” The indignation in that single statement is enough to startle a bark of laughter out of Sokka before he can help it.

“What do you want me to call you instead?”

A flush that’s definitely not from hot water blossoms high on Zuko’s cheekbones and blooms down his neck. 

“Bro?”

“No.”

“Bruh?”

“ _No.”_

“...Sweetheart?”

Zuko buries his face in his palms, mortified, at the diabolical cackle that comes out of Sokka’s mouth. Not for long, though, because not a moment later Sokka’s hands are back in his hair.

“Here, sweetie, scoot forward a bit. I wanna wash it for you.”

Zuko side eyes him.

“You’re gonna try and rinse it in bubble water, aren’t you?”

Sokka sighs a little and wonders why being quietly judged by a naked man in a bathtub fills him with such a ridiculous amount of affection. It doesn’t stop him from running his thumbs in firm passes over the nape of Zuko’s neck, though, a gesture that has him sighing and tilting his head to the side for easier access.

“You gonna let me?”

Zuko’s answer comes in the form of him scooting forward enough that he can tilt his head back without dripping all over the place. They’re still very much in an apartment and the tub is still very much not that big but he manages, even though his knees have to fold up more than they already are. The dark ends, curling from the heat and steam, are long enough to touch the water.

People can say what they like about Sokka, but no one can say that he’s not prepared. No sooner has Zuko given the go-ahead than he’s pulling out a cup and the bottle of Zuko’s bougie shampoo. He doesn’t remember the last time he washed anyone’s hair that wasn’t his—maybe Katara, at some point after Mom died when Dad was useless and Gran-Gran had to devote all her energy to keeping him off the ledge, but definitely not since he was very young. Despite that, Sokka’s hands still remember what to do, gently smoothing dark hair away from Zuko’s eyes so it’s all swept back, dipping the cup into hot water, and emptying it slowly over his hairline.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Sokka tells him softly. Zuko shivers, even as he tries to not visibly die a little inside at how much of his shampoo Sokka squeezes into his palm. It smells _amazing_ and he can’t help but take a deep whiff of it before rubbing it into Zuko’s scalp, running soapy ribbons of lather through his hair. “So good.”

“I’m not doing _anything._ ” Zuko’s voice is low and rough, even though he hasn’t been shouting. Sokka’s throat goes dry.

“Doesn’t matter, I know it’s something that’s hard for you. Sometimes doing nothing is harder than doing something.”

Zuko doesn’t answer, not with words, but he lets his eyes close, properly and not even a little bit like he’s flinching. Sokka works the soap into his hair to a degree that's probably unnecessary, mostly because he likes it and more importantly, _Zuko_ likes it. It’s clear that he likes it and Sokka wants him to be able to hold onto that good feeling and remember it when it’s not so easy.

Sokka takes the cup again and rinses Zuko’s hair—with clean water from the faucet and not the soapy, flowery soup that Zuko’s been marinating in.

“Still feeling good?”

“Uh-huh.” Zuko’s answer comes out of him like a breath more than anything else, soft and so quiet that if Sokka hadn’t been listening for it, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. “I should have asked for this years ago.”

Sokka’s heart gives a hard, unsteady twist in his chest.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” he says, “You keep saying stuff like that and we’ll be here forever.”

“Maybe I wanna be here forever.”

Sokka cards his fingers through Zuko’s hair from root to tips, just once, then pushes it to the side so he can bury his nose in the soft space underneath Zuko’s ear. Sokka can’t help but kiss him there, because he’s soft and wet and smells like flowers, and he puts his tongue out to taste, relishes in the pleased, contented hum that it drags out of him.

He manages to soak the whole front of his shirt in the process and can’t make himself care.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Sokka breathes, and can’t resist dipping his fingers into the mountains of soap bubbles to find one of Zuko’s nipples, teasing it until it pebbles under his touch. Zuko lets out a quiet noise of surprise and uncoils under Sokka’s hands, turns his head to peer up at him underneath dark, wet lashes.

Far from being sedate, the man’s eyes are sharp and his pupils blown wide. Zuko shifts and turns to grab Sokka by his collar, hauling him in for a hard kiss that’s bruising and wonderful and not even a little bit tentative.

“Shit,” Zuko mumbles into his mouth, pulls away for the sole purpose of making Sokka reel him back in with both hands, “Can I…? I want—“

“Literally anything,” spills out of Sokka’s mouth. He’s been at half mast pretty much since the moment he took Zuko’s hair down but seeing the look on Zuko’s face has him done for. “Tell me what you want.”

Zuko slaps a hand to the edge of the tub, sends a curtain of bubbly bath water off his arm and onto the floor by accident.

“I wanna blow you,” he says, “Sit. Please.”

Sokka stands a better chance of spontaneously bursting into flame than he does of telling Zuko no to anything he really wants, and that’s on a day where they’re both wearing clothes. Here and now, where he’s been turned on for what feels like forever and all he can think of is how good Zuko’s lips feel on his, and how good they’ll feel on his cock? Sokka never stood a chance and doesn’t even try.

He stands up and squirms out of his pants and boxer briefs, then loses the shirt too when Zuko pouts at him. Who taught him how to pout and be judgey at the same time? Maybe it’s something that comes naturally.

And maybe Sokka really, really doesn’t care that much when he sits on the edge of the tub, half leans against the wall to keep his balance, and spreads his legs wide. Zuko slots himself between them quicker than should be humanly allowed, and splashes more water out of the tub.

“Sweetheart, you’re making a mess,” he teases. 

“That’s what towels are for; it’s fine.” Zuko props himself up on Sokka’s knees and cranes his face up for a kiss. Sokka’s hands cradle his cheeks and his heart speeds at the look on his face: open and eager and without a hint of hesitation. “You're good?”

“ _So_ good,” Sokka says, beaming down at him and rubbing his thumb gently over the back of his neck. “So good.”

“Um.” Zuko worries his lower lip between his teeth adjusts himself in the tub. “You can, um…” He’s struggling for his words and eventually just huffs a little and grabs for Sokka’s hands, gripping them in his and tugging them to his head. Sokka doesn’t breathe. “You can. Just—”

_Be gentle._

_Be careful._

_Don’t make me regret this._

Sokka hears what Zuko doesn’t say and doesn’t call him out on it. In the end, he just settles back to give Zuko a little more space and cards his fingers through the man’s wet hair, massaging his fingertips along his hairline. He wraps dark hair around his left hand and holds, firmly but gently, and does not pull.

Zuko shivers, not in a bad way, and grips Sokka under his thighs. He ducks his head and kisses the tip before wrapping his lips properly around Sokka’s dick.

“Oh my _god_ , sweetheart,” Sokka groans out, shamelessly loud and echoey with the acoustics of their bathroom. “Holy crap.” Zuko’s eyes are bright and playful when he hums loudly, sending reverberations and shocks of pleasure straight up Sokka’s spine. “You look so fucking good right now, you know that, right? Christ.” Zuko’s teasing hum shifts and pitches hard, just as Sokka had hoped.

Maybe he takes a little too much advantage of Zuko’s weaknesses, but he can’t help it. It feels like it should be a _crime_ that Zuko’s not used to hearing nice things said about him, and Sokka wants to make up for lost time.

That it’s also an incredibly quick way to rev Zuko’s engine is only an unbelievably endearing, precious perk.

Sokka strokes his free hand down Zuko’s jawline to cradle his chin, rubs his thumb across Zuko’s lower lip.

“Oh, _baby,_ ” Sokka breathes, charmed and turned-on and almost mortifyingly in love, “How’d I get so fucking lucky?” The more he talks, the less that Zuko’s able to meet his eyes and the deeper the flush on his cheekbones gets. “You’re doing _so good_. Sweetheart, you’re doing so good for me.”

The noise that comes out of Zuko, muffled around his cock, is very nearly like a sob.

Sokka releases the hold he still has on Zuko’s hair and brushes his damp bangs back, away from his face. Petting his head comes easy, and so does reaching down with both hands to very gently brace the back of his head. What’s harder is letting Zuko do what he wants at the pace that he wants, when his mouth is so good and so hot that all Sokka wants to do is fuck the back of his throat. 

“God, you’re perfect,” Sokka whispers like a benediction, stares down at Zuko like he’s going to disappear. Sometimes, he thinks (despite that it’s been nearly a month and it’s been _awesome_ ) that all of this has been some beautiful, deluded dream. Sokka worries, sometimes, that he’s going to wake up alone and realize that he made it all up.

Right here, right now, he’s never felt more real or here or tethered to reality; Zuko is solid in his hands and burnt into his heart.

Zuko’s very good with his mouth and observant enough to map out all of Sokka’s hot spots and all the little things that make him twist and squirm. He plays him like an instrument he’s practiced for _years_ , like a goddamned maestro, and it’s not fair at all.

Sokka shivers when Zuko runs the flat of his tongue up the length of his shaft in one fluid, sweeping stroke, and swallows him all the way to the back of his throat. Sokka whines and squirms and, despite burying his hands in the other man’s hair, does not pull on him.

“Sweetheart,” Sokka warns with a breath that sounds way more like a gasp than anything else, “l’m really close, honey, I’m gonna—“ He reaches out and grips Zuko by the back of his neck, squeezes in warning. 

Sokka expects him to pull off and take him on the face, or something. Zuko very much does not do that, and moments later Sokka’s coming down his throat with a pleased moan that echoes through the bathroom. Sokka sags against the tile and waits for his heart rate to come down, glancing down just in time to see Zuko visibly swallow, still pressed closely into the space between his thighs.

He looks _wrecked,_ and he’s not even the one who just came, and when Sokka gets his breathing under control he leans over to curl over him, arms instinctively going around his shoulders to hold. 

“Can I…” he begins, then changes his mind, “Do you want…?”

Zuko shakes his head and doesn’t say a word. Sokka doesn’t like the idea of being uneven, and it doesn’t feel fair that he was the only one to get his. But Zuko said no, and Sokka’s not that kind of pushy, even if it doesn’t sit quite right with him.

Zuko gives a full body shiver. The water’s beginning to go cold and the heat from arousal isn’t enough to keep him warm. For the first time in a long time, Sokka can’t figure out what the look on his face means. He doesn’t look upset but he does look shaken and a little bit vulnerable, but it’s gone by the time Sokka’s handed him a towel and started putting his own clothes back on.

“Are you hungry?” Sokka asks, leaning down to drain the water out of the tub.

Zuko shakes his head and twists to start wringing out his hair.

“I think I need a nap,” he admits like it hurts to say it; Sokka grins at him.

“I wouldn’t say no to a nap, but I definitely need to eat something first. Go lay down and I’ll catch up?”

Zuko’s answer is a kiss and a hug that lasts longer than expected, and then he’s shuffling off in the direction of Sokka’s bedroom. He leaves the door cracked.

Sokka makes his way into the kitchen, eyeballs the leftover chili in the fridge, then decides he doesn’t have anywhere near the motivation to warrant using the microwave to heat it up. He ends up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead. Zuko said he wasn’t hungry, but Sokka makes an extra one anyway. 

If he doesn’t want it, Sokka will just have to take one for the team and eat both of them.

Zuko’s a lump underneath Sokka’s blue comforter when he brings the plate with the sandwiches and a can of soda into the bedroom.

“Hey, I know you said you weren’t hungry,” Sokka says and flips up the end of the blanket where he’s pretty sure Zuko’s face is at, “But if you want, I made you a sandwich anywa—oh my _god_ , what’s wrong?”

Zuko’s eyes are huge and wet and the expression on his face in the split second before he notices Sokka is utterly lost. It gets worse when he makes eye contact, because without warning, out of nowhere, his eyes are welling up and then tears are rolling down his cheeks.

Sokka is _horrified_ and nearly drops the sandwiches in his scramble to figure out what’s wrong and fix it. He ends up dropping to his knees by the edge of the bed and reaching out with both hands to frame Zuko’s face in his palms.

“Sweetie, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?” Seeing him look like that makes Sokka’s whole fucking heart ache, and he wonders where this came from—had he been feeling like this when he left the bathroom? Had he felt like this in the tub? Had Sokka missed something on him that he should have seen?

“ _I don’t know_.” Zuko’s voice is confused and very quietly devastated. “I don’t know. I was fine, and then I wasn’t.”

Here by the bed isn’t anywhere near close enough, and Sokka leaves the plate on the floor and tucks himself into bed, hauling Zuko into his arms and pulling him close. He’s not crying hard or loudly or even a lot, and if Sokka hadn’t seen the tears for himself he never would have known. But he did see them, and he _does_ know.

“What do you need from me?” Sokka asks. Zuko sniffles a little into his neck, and Sokka tilts his head to give him some more room. “What can I do?”

For a solid minute, Zuko says nothing. Sokka smothers his own impatience and waits him out.

“I’m just...I’m really happy? But it hurts, too.”

“Did...did I do something wrong?” Sokka has to know, or he doesn’t know how he’s going to live with himself. If this is because of something he did, if he made a bad play, he needs to know it.

The relief he feels when Zuko shakes his head has the magnitude of an earthquake.

“ _No_ ,” Zuko protests with a startling amount of vehemence, “No! You—you were great. You were _perfect_ , okay? You made it perfect and I won’t...I won’t ever be able to forget that. It’s just...I’m sad, too. Because it needed to happen in the first place? I don’t—I don’t think I ever let myself really think about it? I’m processing. Feelings are hard. And stupid.”

Sokka’s next breath out feels like the first in days and when he tucks his chin over the top of Zuko’s head, it feels like everything he’s ever needed.

“...Do you want a sandwich?” Sokka asks gently into Zuko’s hair, dark and still damp and beginning to curl.

Zuko sniffles from somewhere around his collarbone, and the sob turns into a watery laugh about halfway through.

“Yeah, I want it.” He whispers, and loosens his grip enough to let Sokka grab blindly for the plate like the world’s worst attempt at a crane game. “I’m gonna get crumbs in your bed.”

“Don’t care,” Sokka tells him bluntly, “Don't give one iota of a shit about crumbs in my bed. We’ll just go to yours and do laundry tomorrow. What day is tomorrow?”

“Sunday.”

“That’s a great laundry day.”

Sokka hands him a triangle of peanut butter and jelly and drapes the comforter over both of their heads. It feels like a blanket fort, or a secret, or a shield.

His sandwich has never tasted better.

The quiet is comfortable and soft and warm. Zuko stops trembling about halfway through his second triangle and by the time he’s finished with it, his eyes are dry. He looks wiped out and still manages to be beautiful, tinted slightly blue by the bits of light shining in through the fabric. 

“Tired, honey?”

“I wanna sleep for, like, a week,” Zuko mumbles.

“Let’s try for a few hours and see where that goes,” Sokka suggests and lets the plate drop back down to the floor with a quiet thunk. Zuko _is_ tired, because he says nothing about it and makes no move to take care of it himself. “Naps are proof that we’re meant to be happy and love ourselves.”

Zuko replies with a considering sort of hum and goes loose and pliant in Sokka’s arms like it’s instinctive, like it’s _easy_.

“I love you.”

At first Sokka thinks that he’s imagined hearing it, that he’s having an extremely vivid hallucination, because there’s no way those three words in that combination just came out of Zuko’s mouth just now. But he looks down anyway and Zuko’s staring up at him, obviously nervous, but he doesn’t take them back, or say that it was a mistake.

Sokka tries to swallow but he can’t, because his heart’s gotten stuck in his throat.

“What did you s—“

“ _I love you_ ,” Zuko repeats himself and Sokka’s mouth snaps shut. The silence drags. “I just...I wanted you to know. It’s been—It’s been so long that I don’t remember what it feels like not to love you. You don't—I mean. I don’t want you to feel like you have to say it back, if you don’t—”

“ _Oh._ Oh my god. _God_ , I love you too,” Sokka manages to croak. His voice comes out hoarse, as if he’s the one who’s been crying. “Fuck. I’m so _sorry_ , you surprised me. _Of course_ I love you, too.” He flounders, so thrown and surprised that he doesn’t know what to do, like an idiot. “Oh my _god._ Sweetheart. I’ve been head over heels in love with you _for years._ Thank you for letting me finally say it.” His eyes are burning, but dry.

Zuko buries his face in the soft fabric of Sokka’s t-shirt but his own breath is tellingly uneven.

“I love you,” Sokka tells him again, because he can, and feels like he might never be able to stop smiling for as long as he lives. He would have expected it to feel like revelation but it’s not—finally being able to say it feels like something off kilter snapping into place and making things _right_.

It’s not a revelation, it’s just a truth.

The truest thing in the world.

* * *


End file.
